


Smoke Tidbits, Worldbuilding, BadgerAngel's Drabbles

by SoupShue



Series: Smoke Universe from BadgerAngel [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22672723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoupShue/pseuds/SoupShue
Summary: exactly what it says on the Tin- bits and pieces of collaboration with BadgerAngel whose works and whom you can no longer find on AO3 This stuff in particular was a large part of the worldbuilding for the story of SMOKE which my work What Castle Saw was a companion piece to...
Series: Smoke Universe from BadgerAngel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631029
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	1. A bit of the Horcrux revelation

When Hermione returned to her rooms, he was waiting for her, Minerva beside him; he would not visit a young lady in her rooms without a chaperone. Old habits, perhaps, but good ones. "Miss Granger," he said, inclining his head. "Lady Ravenclaw."

"Headmaster. Good luck," the Gray Lady said before slipping through a nearby wall. 

"Did you find anything this afternoon, Headmaster? There's not -- Bellatrix won't try to possess me, or anything of that sort?" Hermione asked, and was comforted by his shaking head.

"No, Miss Granger. Do have a seat, please." He waited until she had done so before going on. "Nothing whatsoever of the sort that I found, and I promise you, I was very thorough in my searches, Mr. Potter and I both. Do thank him again for me when next you speak with him."

"I will. But --" she hushed as Minerva raised an eyebrow.

"Roll your sleeve up for us, Hermione," Minerva said quietly. "We need to see it again, and Headmaster Snape must examine it very thoroughly."

"Of course," Hermione said, already unbuttoning her cuff. Severus stood well back, allowing Minerva to stay in between them, until at last the wretched wound was exposed again to the air. Hideous red welts stood up against the paler flesh of Hermione's arm, the letters crooked and slanting, but at least, for the moment, it was dry. He raised his wand as Minerva held Hermione's hand out, giving him the best angle to cast at.

"I cannot use, we cannot use, any sort of numbing charm or the like," he said to both of them. "This will hurt, Miss Granger. I am very sorry, but it will." 

"It can't hurt more than it already does, Headmaster," she sighed. He nodded to show he had heard her, and began casting the diagnostic spells. She would have been fascinated, if, as he had warned her, it hadn't hurt. Oh dear God, some of the spells made her flesh feel as if it were being cut into again and again, each horrid letter redrawn by that dreadful dagger, her cries held back only by pride.

When at last he looked at her again, saw her again, rather than just the affected limb (like a doctor, she thought, he hadn't seen her for the last bit, just her arm) he stepped back, sliding his wand into his sleeve. "Here," he said, handing Minerva a pain relieving potion from his inner robe's pocket. "Calming and pain relief draught. No more than a swallow, it's rather strong." Minerva nodded, and as she unstoppered the vial, he called out, "Tisha!"

His personal house elf popped into existence, eyes wide and ears straight up with alarm. "Headmaster?"

"Hot tea, strong, sweet, Tisha. And some biscuits, too, chocolate ones. Or chocolate fairy cakes, something," he ordered, and Tisha nodded once before popping away, while Minerva tried to get Hermione to drink some water on the couch. Damn his own bloody curiosity! And damn the girl's…no. No, he couldn't damn her. "Miss Granger, I am horribly sorry," he said, crossing to where she sat, pale and shaking. "I was…I am horribly sorry, I was so caught up in the problem --"

"Oh, no, Headmaster," the young lady replied, looking up at him. He saw, then, the blood on her lips, the tears in her eyes. "No, don't apologize, don't. I know what it is to be carried away by a problem, you see. But did you find what you need to…to fix it?"

"I did," he said, sitting down as Tisha appeared again, a silver service in her hands. "Minerva, would you be so good as to pour?"

When Hermione had drunk a cup of good black tea, with three sugars, and eaten a cherry tart drizzled daintily with chocolate, he explained. "I was very thorough," he said. "I am sorry it hurt you, but some things…well. To heal, you must endure, from time to time. And you did very well, very well indeed."

"I should like to know some of those spells," Hermione said, her voice still a little shaky. "I recognized a few, I thought, from the wand movement, but --"

"Let us focus for now on your healing," Severus said, but not unkindly. "I believe it can be achieved relatively quickly, with a bit of luck. And then recuperation time…I am in hopes that you can return to University at the proper time, but I would like for us to have a week or two of cushion, just in case."

"The curse, Headmaster? What was it?" She asked, and he sighed.

"It is a variation on the "Cruenti Semper," he explained. "I will have to find out if Bellatrix kept any journals or magical notes, and if she did, if they still exist, as a precaution; that curse was relatively common in the Dark Ages, and as that dagger was a family heirloom, it may be on the blade itself, rather than something Bellatrix came up with. I'll check for that before I destroy the horcrux. And that, I intend on doing tonight, Castle, so that you'll be happier."

"You won't do it alone," Minerva said, a hint of irritation showing in her eyes as he opened his mouth to protest. "No, Severus. I won't have it. I'll tell Filius, and he can help you. Horcruxes are dangerous when threatened." Her tone softened, just a bit, as she went on. "Besides. You don't have to do everything all by yourself anymore, my lad. You tend to forget that."

He cleared his throat, annoyed at the lump that had risen there. "Yes. Well. If Filius would care to aid me, I would be most grateful for his assistance."

"Oh, he will," Minerva promised. "And after?"

"I will go…tomorrow I have the Governors meeting…the day after, to Malfoy Manor. I'll send a message to Mrs. Malfoy this evening, to set things in motion. Besides. She would know where Bella would keep such a thing, if she had one at all."

"Oh, surely she did; surely no one would, could, create a horcrux out of an already cursed object without taking notes on how to do such a thing," Hermione replied.

"Bellatrix Black Lestrange was not just anyone; she was very skilled at Dark Magic, and besides, before she went mad, extremely intelligent. I tend to agree with you, but I've found myself able, in the throes of creation, to come up with things on the fly, as it were. Though I do take most things step by step," he said. "Tisha, help Miss Granger to bed; she will likely be rather unsteady."

"Oh, I don't need --" Hermione began, and he raised an eyebrow.

"I made that potion, Miss Granger. I know how strong it is," he said. "Kindly allow Tisha to help you."

"As you wish, Headmaster," Hermione replied, lowering her gaze; that caught his attention. Hermione Granger, submissive? Since when, exactly? Still, he had no time to investigate this development as of now. A Horcrux in the walls, Cruenti Semper…damn it. He'd leave that to Minerva, he'd have to. 

"Good night, Miss Granger," he said, rising, and Minerva followed suit.

"Good night to you both."

  
  
  


Severus followed Minerva out into the hall, and the pair got almost all the way down the hallway before he caught her eye. "What the bloody hell was that last bit?" He hissed. "She has never been…I don't know…docile."

"No," Minerva agreed, a worried cast to her face. "I don't like it, either. I'm not sure…perhaps it's all the trauma…"

"It certainly could be," he said after a moment. "But that…submissiveness. Is not in her character. Not at all."

"I'll speak to her," Minerva said, her lips pressing tightly together. "I'm rather done with it myself. She's…too, Severus, she could simply be tired, not of body but of soul." They stopped on the landing, and Severus leant against the banister, waiting for Minerva to go on. "The war was hard on all of us, you most of all, I know, but she's been fighting since she was eleven. She spent what, six, eight months on the run, there's the issue with her parents…when she first returned to help with the rebuilding, she was suffering rather greatly, refusing to eat most of the time. Her appetite, at least, is somewhat better, but she is…I hesitate to use the term ennui. It isn't quite what I mean."

"No, but I understand," Severus said. "Still. It's rather a shock. I've only seen her a few times out of company, and it was…she wasn't like this."

"No," Minerva agreed. "But she hasn't been quite herself since the war. I see glimmers from time to time, but not truly her spirit."

"No. Do what you can." He sighed. "I would hope that she will talk to you. At any rate, would you please have Filius meet me below the Headmaster's office in fifteen minutes?"

"I'll see to it. And Severus…" she laid a hand on his forearm. "Do be careful."

"Oh, I will," he said with a smile. "I beat the bitch in her life, I'll not let her take me in death."

  
  
  
  


Filius was pacing in the hallway below the Headmaster's door when Severus came out of it, a small filigreed box, and two pairs of dragonhide gloves in his hands. "Headmaster," Filius said with a nod, a nervous smile on his face. "How may I assist you?"

"By informing me that you are, indeed, the greatest Charms Master in the Isles, to being with," Severus said as he led Filius to where the hidden door had been. "Castle, if you would, please." The door shimmered into existence, and the two men stepped into the Room of Requirement. The stone casket that contained the dagger lay on the table in the middle of the room, and Severus sighed as he handed Filius a pair of gloves. 

"My plan," Severus began, "is to stab the horcrux --"

"Wait. Horcrux?" Filius gasped out, his jaw dropping, and Severus kicked himself mentally for not preparing Filius better.

"Yes. The dagger used to carve the word mudblood into Miss Granger's arm is a horcrux, created by Bellatrix Black Lestrange," Severus explained. "It was cursed, as well, most likely with a variation on Cruenti Semper. I will be looking into that in the next few days. But tonight, the important task is to destroy the horcrux itself."

Filius swallowed, stood a little straighter, and nodded. "Yes. Yes, above all else, and by all means. What do you want me to do, Headmaster?"

"I cannot use the Sword of Gryffindor, not being a Gryffindor true," Severus said. "And I have no other magical artifact that can truly destroy the horcrux. I can wound it, using a basilisk fang, but I cannot destroy it." He watched Filius put the pieces of the puzzle together, saw a low, almost cruel smile cross the jolly little man's face, his goblin heritage showing in that smile as Severus had never seen before.

"Ah. And you ask if I truly am the greatest Charms Master in Britain because you need me to cast Fiendfyre."

"Indeed. I can, and have before; but I would rather you do so, Filius, as I trust in your abilities," Severus said. "And your control of them."

"Thank you, Headmaster," Filius said, bowing his head low. "I appreciate your trust. Stab the ruddy thing; I'd rather nothing were left on this plane of existence of that…despicable woman." There was a glint in his eye that Severus had never seen, a note of pride in his tone, and Severus was glad indeed that he had chosen to take Minerva's advice. 

Slowly, Severus approached the table, laying down his own box on it and putting on his gloves before anything else. Dragonhide would protect him should the fang miss its mark, which was possible; horcruxes were powerful artifacts, well able to protect themselves in any way possible. Opening the filigree box, he withdrew a long, white fang, glistening still with venom, before opening the casket.

The dagger shivered all of its own as Severus drew it out of the box. A loud humming sound emanated from it, and Severus realized his mistake almost as it was made. Turning to Filius, he shouted, "Occlude! Occlude, man, for your life and mine, occlude!" Even as he did so, Filius was raising his wand, and Severus trembled at the look on Filius' face.


	2. The Counter-Curse Ceremony

Pomona huffed a bit, Rolanda’s breath behind her coming somewhat easier, and Pomona envied her that for a moment before reminding herself rather sternly that her physical condition was her own fault; Rolanda stayed in better shape than she did on purpose, so as to sit her broom better. Still, she felt a slight twinge in her back as she put down the last of the potted ivies, Rolanda bringing the seventh white heather to complete the circle. She took a step backwards, gauging the distance between the potted plants of ivy, heather, fennel, laurel, oak, and olive as they ringed a twenty foot circle in the secluded courtyard.

The Headmaster glowered from the center, looking back and forth from a book that tried every few seconds to snap shut back to the sigil that he was creating in chalk on the stone. It seemed very complicated to Pomona, who, to be honest, had never been much of one for ceremonial magics. She preferred the honest simplicity of kitchen magic, of hearth and home and herbs slipped into drinks and treats, the scent of lavender and fresh baked bread to soothe one’s mental and emotional wounds. But she recognized the need and the power of ceremonial magic, and was more than happy to help in the small way she could, by bringing the plants that the Headmaster had requested to create a binding and protective buffer and to enhance the work he intended to do for Miss Granger had been no difficulty. 

The sight of Narcissa Malfoy, waiting in the northmost point of the circle, still made Pomona’s hackles rise a bit. Though…well. To be perfectly honest, she did look a little…careworn, these days. Her eyes were shadowed, and the sharp edges to her cheekbones and chin told of meals missed. Her complexion, usually alabaster pale and kept carefully pure, was a little sallow, somewhat off. Her hands twisted and turned at her waist, clasped one moment, then moving again, as if she couldn’t help her movements, her nerves on edge, ever and always on edge. She wore slate grey, not silver, and her only jewelry was her wedding ring. Pomona had never seen her in such…she was still well put together, she didn’t look as if she’d just thrown something on, but…still. For Narcissa, it was all horribly out of character, so far as Pomona knew. 

“And lo, how the mighty have fallen,” Rolanda muttered beside her, and she looked over at her partner of the last sixty years. “Humbled. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the poor woman was on the verge of hysteria.”

“Hysteria? No, she doesn’t --“ Pomona began, and Rolanda shook her head, her hat wobbling. Pomona made a mental note to pin it better to her hair once they were alone.

“No. Not hysteria like laughter. Hysteria like…a breakdown. A nervous breakdown. She’s shattered, poppet.” Rolanda took a discreet step closer, just brushing her sleeve against Pomona’s, the most affection the two dared to share in public. “Her spirit’s been beat to shite, and her heart’s near breaking. Poor woman. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.” She half-smiled, a wry twist to her mouth. “And there’s my Da speaking out of my mouth again.”

“Mmm.” Pomona considered before replying. “I think you’re right. I wonder what she’s here for, though.”

“Probably to help Sev. You know the Blacks and their affinity to Dark Magic,” Rolanda shrugged. “Well. Shouldn’t be long now.”

**  
  
**

It was another half-hour, though, before Severus finally looked up from the sigil, carefully etched on the stone. “There,” he said. “Madam Malfoy, if you please?” Narcissa’s head rose, and she nodded. Severus joined her in the north, his long legs eating up the ground. “Now. You are widdershins. The beat is one, one, two. Three times, and then we trade places, and you become deosil, three times again, the beat changing to one, two, one. The seventh circle is deosil, both of us together, the beat one, two, three. Do you have it?”

“Yes,” Narcissa said, her voice very slight, barely audible to the two old Witches at the edge of the courtyard. 

“Good.” The Headmaster reached out and caressed Narcissa’s shoulder, a pat of encouragement. “It will not be…I can’t say exactly what form it will take, ‘Cissy, but surely, since you’re taking it on freely, and you were not the caster, it won’t be too bad. And I will lift it as soon as I can.” Rolanda’s eyebrows rose, and Pomona pricked her own ears at that; what did that mean? But then the Headmaster turned, his face as stone as he faced the nearest door of the Castle. His voice rang out in a sonorous thunder. “Bring forth the Supplicant.”

The door opened then, and Minerva came out of the Castle, her hair in a braided coronet around her head. She wore not her usual robes, but was wrapped in a cloak of her Clan tartan, green with bits of red, threads of gold. Behind her walked Hermione, all in white, her hair loose over her shoulders and falling down to the middle of her back. She was barefoot, the robe uncinched, free and flowing. Filius brought up the rear, and Pomona gasped to see the rapier hanging from his belt. 

“What…Rolanda…” Pomona murmured, and Rolanda shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it certainly looks as if Hermione’s to be sacrificed to a dragon or some daft thing, doesn’t it?”

“It does. Something like that, anyway,” Pomona agreed. 

Minerva’s steps were sure, but measured very carefully, keeping to a slow march, as if to a distant war-drum. Hermione followed about a beat behind her to the edge of the courtyard. Severus met them there, taking off his outer, black robe, and holding out a hand; Tisha appeared in a wink, handing him another. Slowly, with great care, Severus unfolded it, letting it hang freely for a moment before slipping it on. This robe was purple, deep, royal purple, with both gold and silver embroidered sigils all over it. The sigils moved constantly, creating new ones, symbols of power, protection, strength and wisdom, flowing seamlessly into one and then another. He paused for a few seconds after donning it, his eyes closing as a powerful wind came from the east, blowing his hair back from his face.

In that instant, Pomona was struck with a fearful reverence, a sensation sinking deep into her bones. The earth itself shivered, and a wild wind blew through the trees of the Forbidden Forest, shrieking, followed quickly by the horns of the Centaurs, heard from a distance. And then Severus spoke.

His words boomed in a measured rhythmic chant, and Pomona couldn’t understand them; they weren’t Latin, or French, or English, or any other language she recognized. No, whatever language this was was long dead, forgotten to most. But not, apparently, to the Headmaster. Nor, it seemed, to Narcissa, who picked up the guttural chant and sang it out herself in a counterpoint, not a harmony, not a round, more like calls and answers. Majestic, yes, and Filius seemed…his brow was wrinkled in concentration, he listened intently. Was it goblin, perhaps? No. No. Too -- she loved Filius, she did, but there was a beauty in this that she had never heard in the few bits of Goblin she knew. 

Then Filius stepped forward, unsheathing the rapier that hung by his side and cutting a door into the sacred space. Severus waved, and Minerva and Hermione came forward, followed by Filius, who just as carefully as he had opened the door, closed it behind them. The circle shimmered a dark sapphire blue, but not a circle now, a half-sphere….and then the color solidified, so that Pomona couldn’t see.

“Damn,” Rolanda muttered beside her. “Well. That’s all for the peanut gallery until the end, I suppose.”

“What do you mean?” Pomona asked, finally reaching up to fix Rolanda’s hat. “Hold still.”

“Exactly that,” Rolanda said quietly. “Whatever they’re about to do, it’s either so sacred, or so dangerous, that they’ve cut themselves off. A time that is not a time, a place that is not a place, within that blue circle, poppet. They’re not quite on earth anymore.”

“What was that? That chant?” Pomona asked as the two Witches went inside the Castle. “What language was it, at least?”

“I don’t know. Something…something old. Something very, very old. Did it give you chillbumps? It gave me chillbumps.”

“Oh, yes. Majestic, really.”

“Dragon,” Aurora said from behind them, and they turned to look at her. Tall and willowy, Aurora Sinistra had never exactly been one to gossip, or part of the coterie, as it were, of the staff. She held herself just a little off, just a bit away, from the others. “It was Dragon.”

“Merlin’s -- robes,” Rolanda corrected herself before she was vulgar. “You must be joking!”

“No. It is not a common tongue where I grew up, but the Naga still speak it,” she said quietly. “That was the chant of a sorcerer to the Nine Great Dragons of the Universe, to ask their protection and their blessing. And it was granted, else the Dragon’s Breath would not have come to shade them from our view.” 

Pomona was…shocked, to say the least. Dragons? They were, of course, mystical and inherently magical creatures, but…

“In the before time, before most humanity had formed,” Sinistra went on, almost in a lecturing tone, “the dragons were the most learned of all creatures. And they shared that knowledge with men. That is how wizards and witches came to be; the Dragons chose the most intelligent, and taught us what they could. Those ancestors’ close associations with Dragons set them apart, both in power and in body. The legends of my country say that all the Witches and Wizards had golden skin then, to show that they were blessed by the Dragon’s Kiss.”

“What happened?” Rolanda asked. “According to your legends.”

“Envy is ugly,” Sinistra sighed. “And those who were not so blessed rose up against the Dragons, demanding to be taught the same secrets, the same knowledge. And they destroyed that fair land amongst the waves, where Dragons and humans lived in harmony. Only the very strongest survived, and went on to Greece.”

“Atlantis. You’re talking about Atlantis,” Pomona said reverently, but Sinistra shook her head.

“No. The eldest of the three sister islands. Atlantis died of different means. I speak of Lemuria.”

“Three sister islands?” Rolanda asked, but Sinistra only smiled, and walked away. Once she was out of sight, Rolanda turned to Pomona. “Where’s she from again?”

“Supposed to be Ceylon,” Pomona said, eyes narrowing. “But I’m beginning to wonder.”

Within the sapphire circle, an altar rose from the stone. A dish, a goblet, a censer were already upon it; Filius came forward and laid his dagger on the stone, returning then behind Hermione, as the Guardian.

Hermione watched and listened carefully to the chant as the Headmaster went on, walking now around the circle clockwise as Mrs. Malfoy stepped counterclockwise, call and answer, answer and call, before they switched places, the Headmaster now widdershins, Mrs. Malfoy deosil. This was…beyond her. She recognized that. Still, the magic called to her, blood and bone, sinew and soul, promised her somehow that one day, one day she, too, would attain these heights, that she would be able to attain both the power and the attention of Powers, if only she went on, if only she strived, little one, strive, for We foresee such greatness in you….

Minerva moved out of her way, and Hermione went to the altar, kneeling before it, the song of the magic strong in her head. It grieved for her. It grieved for the wounds of her soul, the wounds of her body, the scars she bore. Strong. So strong. But strength comes too in the softness of silk, in the beauty of the fragile web. Consider the dandelion, Hermione Jean Granger. Consider how its seeds are soft, and fly so easily away. Consider, then, how man rummages about, roots them up. Yet always, always, they return. More resilient. More prevalent. Consider this. Mark it. A chorus of voices chanted, “Remember the web; remember the dandelion; remember the willow,” in her head as she waited there for the spell to be cast.

The Druids could not have been more kingly, she thought, looking up into the Headmaster’s face, brow creased in concentration as he spoke, now in Latin. Mrs. Malfoy came up beside him, and took Hermione’s cursed arm, twining her fingers between Hermione’s. She didn’t understand the spell, didn’t recognize it, but the power, oh, the power that passed between the three, fire and ice, pain radiating through her again as it had when Bellatrix first laid the blade to her skin, and she screamed, just as she had then.

And then, as it had begun, it stopped suddenly; her arm didn’t hurt. Her arm didn’t hurt. She had borne it so long that for a moment, she was confused; why didn’t -- but it dawned on her slowly, and too, the constant fog, the mist she had told Minerva of, lifted, burning away as mist over a meadow on a summer morning. She could think. Think clearly. Her mind raced as it had before that horrible day, she could see now, she could see --

She could see the pain and terror etching itself into Mrs. Malfoy’s face, the grim set to her jaw, as the spell wrapped itself around her, instead. Nature deplores a vacuum. Magic, being a law of Nature, does the same. And so Hermione gripped Narcissa’s hand tightly, pulled the older woman into an embrace, and looked up at the Headmaster in horror.

His wand lowered at last, the blue shell around them dissipating, slowly, and Narcissa sagged in Hermione’s arms. “Oh, child,” she whispered in Hermione’s ear. “Oh, child. What you have borne.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s not her fault, why does she have to take it? She didn’t cast it, it’s not hers, it’s not her fault!” Hermione cried. “It’s not fair!”

“She is of the blood that cast it,” the Headmaster said quietly. “Would you rather it had been Draco, Hermione? When you know, you know, how fragile he yet is?”

“No, no, of course not, but why --“

“The curse had to go somewhere. And…and it’s my turn,” Narcissa said, finally rising from Hermione’s shoulder. “My son has suffered. My husband has suffered. My turn, then, to drink from the cup of wroth.”

“No, it’s not --“

“Say it isn’t fair one time more, Hermione, and I’ll slap you myself,” Minerva said behind her. “Magic has a price, my dear. You know that.”

“But she didn’t do anything!” Hermione proclaimed. “She didn’t do it!”

“But I didn’t stop it, either,” Narcissa told her, finally standing up straight again and cupping Hermione’s cheek in her hand. “I could have stopped it. I could have done many things over the last twenty years to stop my husband from his plans, I could have shaped my child’s mind in ways to counteract his father’s influence, I could have done many, many things, Hermione. And I didn’t. There must be punishment for the lookers-on, as well as those who deal in evil.”

“And it is only temporary,” the Headmaster added wearily. “She will only bear this as long as you did. Then, we may come together again and lift the curse completely.”

“Two years?” Hermione asked. 

“Two years, four months, and eleven days. Yes.” 

“And I’m not scarred. I won’t bleed,” Narcissa said gently. “I have…the…”

“Lassitude. The soul-scarring. You will dream, Narcissa. And they will be horrible, reliving all that you have seen, all that you have silently walked away from, all the ugliness, all the nastiness. I recommend you keep a house elf with you while you sleep from now on, to counteract any wild magic that might arise; but otherwise, you got off lightly. Comparatively.”

“And I asked for this,” Narcissa told Hermione. “I volunteered for this. It’s not my mess, no, but…” she laughed, a little bitterly. “But it isn’t the first time I’ve had to mop up after Bella.”

“It’s still not fair. Barbaric, even.”

“Well, and magic is, sometimes,” Minerva told her. “Now. Let’s go have some tea, ground ourselves somewhat. That was…an experience.”

“That’s a word,” Filius agreed. “That’s definitely a word for it.”

Plans went on apace for the statuary’s parade that would draw the carriages to Hogwarts for the first night. Severus went on with the unending reams of paperwork from the Governor’s Board and the Ministry, and was in the midst of reading through the contracts with Meddleworm’s Shrubberies when Beccos cleared his throat. “Yes, Beccos.”

“Pardon, Headmaster, but Professor Flitwick has guests at the gate.”

“Mmm? Who?”

“Ah…Masters Hedgewick, Knusson, and Cracklemarsh, sir.”

“Goblins?”

“The same.”

“Allow them entry, send a message to Filius, ask Tisha to send a tray of snacks to the conference room.” He rose. “Tell Filius I will meet him there.”

“Yes, Headmaster.”

“Thank you, Beccos.” He went to his rooms, found his finest new robes, made by Lucius’ own tailor. The deepest green, with black diamonds studding the cuffs and collar, his new crest discreetly embroidered between each diamond. The P stood tall, the mamba around the post hissed silently, its head rising as he slid the emerald and silver cuff links, once his grandfather’s, into their places. “Shh. Not yet. Not unless necessary,” he told it. “I am the Half-Blood Prince.” The snake became rigid. It really was the most useful charm; should any foul magic -- he had been careful to distinguish between pranks, cantrips, and truly harmful intent -- be cast in his direction, the snake would rise. The ingenuity of whoever had come up with it. So clever. 

“Gentlegoblins,” he said as pleasantly as he could as he entered the conference room. “I welcome you to Hogwarts.”

“Headmaster Snape,” the three goblins stood from their seats and bowed; Filius nodded. “And Lord Prince-Snape, too, now.”

“So I am. Life has…interesting…ways of changing, doesn’t it?” He asked as he took his place at the head of the table. “So. I assume this has to do with Master Etranger?”

“Indeed,” Filius agreed, eyes twinkling. “We negotiated the smaller things amongst ourselves, Headmaster, I left you the details two days ago.”

“So you did.” And he had read them just that morning, thankfully, so the details were still very fresh. “I am not sure why Hogwarts is now to take on half of the past necessaries of food and drink and clothing, however.”

“You are buying the contract of the subject,” one of the goblins stated. “The current contract holder is entitled to compensation for their necessary expenditures.”

“Yes, but during that time, the subject was fully in the service of the Meltentongue Family,” Severus countered. “And one must keep one’s servants in good health, or else one invests unwisely.”

“True; true.” The middle goblin now, taller than the other two by half an inch. “But how then is the Meltentongue Family to recoup its investments if some compensation for the upkeep is not paid?”

“A quarter,” Severus offered. “No more. Next.”

“The Meltentongue Family requires that the entirety of the contract be paid, in full,” the same goblin spoke. “And that sum is large enough that Master Flitwick did not feel comfortable negotiating further.”

“And what sum is that? To the day, gentlegoblins, to the day, of the interest.” Severus narrowed his eyes. “I will not be told, five years from now, that our contract was null and void due to an extra knut of interest unpaid.”

“Ah. Cracklemarsh.” The speaker nudged one of his companions, who was poring over a parchment. 

“Seventy-two thousand, nine hundred fifty-nine Galleons, eleven sickles, nineteen knuts. As of today.”

“I see.” He looked to Filius and raised one eyebrow; Filius quick downward glance told him all he needed to know. “And so when one adds in the quarter of compensation that I agree to, what does it add up to, today? And how quickly will Master Etranger be released from his service?”

“The moment the money changes hands, he will be released,” the middle goblin took over again. “We will, of course, accept Lord Prince-Snape’s direct letter of credit. Or Hogwarts’.” His fangs showed as he tried to smile. “We know very well that either account would be good for it.”

“And you will have it.” Severus held up the blank letter he had brought with him, already sealed with the school seal. “But I must know the full amount, gentlegoblins.”

“Ninety thousand, two hundred three Galleions, four sickles, thirteen knuts,” the smaller goblin replied. 

“Payable to the Meltentongue Family? And then of course Gringott’s must have its negotiation services compensated for.” His quill was already scratching out the numbers.

“Indeed,” the goblin in charge agreed. “And that is two hundred Galleons, even. Payable to Gringott’s.”

“Excellent,” Severus muttered. “I did not bring another letter of credit. Tisha!” Tisha popped into view beside him, her upper lip curling just a bit; House Elves did not care for goblins. “Tisha. Go into my quarters, bring me my personal chequebook, please.” It was only a few seconds before all of the payments were written, and he had Filius look them over before they were given to the bank’s goblins. “Please. As a gesture of goodwill between Hogwarts and Gringotts, if one of you would do me the kindness of informing Master Etranger to come directly to Hogwarts?”

“Of course,” the middle goblin, the spokesperson was all smiles now. “It would be my pleasure, Lord Prince-Snape.”

“Thank you so. If you’ll pardon me, I find I must arrange for the new Potions Master’s quarters to be prepared; Filius, would you be so kind as to see our guests to the gate?”

“Of course, Headmaster. Gentlegoblins?” 

**  
  
  
**

The stairs cooperated, as they always did now that he was Headmaster, and he was very soon standing before the door of his old quarters in the dungeons. “Lily,” he whispered, laying his hand on the door, and it opened soundlessly. He had, of course, already moved his possessions from the rooms, but he wanted to make one last look around before it became someone else’s. The scent of sandalwood and cedar stirred memories, unfortunately, mostly unpleasant ones, as he passed through what had been his sitting room, his private office, his bedroom. The four poster stood untouched, the heavy mahogany furniture gleaming and smelling slightly of lemon based polish. 

“Castle,” he said quietly, and the air grew thick. “Is there anything here that I have forgotten? Any secrets that I have hidden away, that I would rather no one see?”

A chime sounded from the far southern corner of the room, and he followed it, a sad smile touching his lips as he remembered. “Thank you, Castle,” he murmured, laying his fingers on the false stone. It dissipated beneath his touch, and he reached in to take out the cedar box. Small treasures, yes. He flipped open the lid. His mother’s pearls. Her last treasure, and even they had been….shortened. Once an opera length necklace, when he was a child she had been able to wrap them three times around her neck. By the time she died, they were barely a choker. Sold one by one to the jewelers in town. A worn photograph of his father’s parents, Sean and Annie. They had gone back to Ireland after the mills had dried all the way up. And a bottle of his mother’s perfume, a bare few drops left within. Vetiver, sandalwood, and musk. “Mum,” he whispered, his eyes growing wet. “Mum, I hope you’re proud.”

He closed the box, shrank it, tucked it into a pocket of his robes. “The new occupant of these quarters will be here soon,” he said quietly. “He will likely wish to change things; you might want to give him a blank slate, as it were.” He looked around one time more at the room that had been his sanctuary, his one place of safety, the one place where he could be Severus rather than Snape, for the last twenty plus years. “And…again. Thank you, Castle.”

**  
  
  
  
**

Jacques looked up with a guarded expression from his seat on the bench, watching over the goblin children doing their sums, as his…employer…entered the room. “Dismiss them,” the goblin said.

“That’s enough work for now,” he said, standing. “You’re dismissed.” The children put away their quills and ink, their books, and left the schoolroom. Only once the door closed did Jacques kneel before Master Meltentongue. “Your grace.”

“Your contract was bought today by Hogwarts,” Master Meltentongue told him. “You are dismissed from my service, Master Etranger, and are to report to Hogwarts immediately.” Jacques could hardly believe his ears; he had been in service to the goblins for so long…still, somehow, somehow, he remembered his manners. It did not do to anger a goblin.

“Thank you, Master Meltentongue. It has not been a hardship to serve you or your family.” That, at least, was true. He had been fed, he had had new clothes once a year, he had been given medical treatment when necessary. 

“Good. I am very glad to hear that.” Jacques stood up then. “You have done very well in teaching the children, and have fulfilled your contract honorably, Wizard.”

“Thank you, Master Meltentongue.”

“I wish you well.”

“And I you.” Jacques waited for the goblin to nod politely and leave before he left the schoolroom for the small chambers he had been given. He packed carefully. Nothing that the goblins had given him could be taken with him save for very personal items. But he still had his notebooks, his books, his sketchbook and paints and colored pencils. His personal potionmaking and botanist items. And within twenty minutes, he was out the door of the Meltentongue caverns, being guided back to the surface. He only blinked a few seconds, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light. He had never been to Hogwarts, and so he could not apparate directly there. But he had been to London. Setting the door of the Leaky Cauldron firmly in his mind, he apparated there, instead, and went inside.

The smell of spilled beer met his nose, and burnt sausages, but he still went up to the bar and waited patiently for the barkeeper to get to him. “Excuse me. I am to go to Hogwarts? Where is the closest Floo?”

“Y’can’t Floo to Hogwarts, lad, it ain’t on the Network,” Tom said, looking the young man over. “Y’Floo t’The Three Broomsticks. Rosmerta’ll set you on t’road to Hogwarts.”

“Thank you.” Jacques dug through his pockets, came up with exactly four knuts. “Sorry.” He left two on the counter, went to the fireplace and left another knut on the mantle for Floo powder. Flinging it in, he waited for the green fire to flare before stepping in and saying very clearly, “The Three Broomsticks.”

**  
  
  
**

The walk up to the grand gates was very nice, in the gloaming of a summer’s day. The sun was still just peeking over the western horizon as he laid his hand on them, and a house elf appeared on the other side. “Who comes to Hogwarts?”

“My name is Jacques Etranger,” he told the house elf. “I am expected.” The gate swung open then, and the house elf scurried forward to take his bag.

“Darren is happy to welcome Master Etranger to Hogwarts,” the house elf told him. “Darren is to be Master Etranger’s elf, to see to whatever Master wishes. Darren knows plants, and Darren knows how to get potion stains out of robes, and Darren knows how to keep flames just as Master wants them.”

“Good. Excellent, thank you, Darren.” The road was smooth, and no trouble to walk up; perhaps a little steep, but not horrible. “Is it still suppertime?” He was ravenous.

“The professors eat at six, and it is seven thirty-nine, but the kitchens will feed you, no one goes hungry at Hogwarts,” Darren promised. 

“How do you know what time it is?”

“Darren always knows time. It is Darren’s gift,” Darren shrugged. “Look, there is Granger-Puppy!” A large gray dog came bounding up, barking, and in a blink, a lovely young woman stood in front of them.

“Hello, Darren. Who’s this?” Her brown eyes were sharp, but warm, as she looked up at him.

“Jacques Etranger.” He bowed deeply. “At your service, Mademoiselle Granger.” She had the prettiest hair, brown with streaks of honey gold and curling down her back. Her lips were full and her face rosy, oh, it had been too long since he had been near a human woman.

“Hi. I’m Hermione,” she said, smiling, and Jacques’ jaw dropped.

“No! The Hermione Granger?” He gasped.

“The very same,” she laughed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, M’sieur Etranger.”

“Master,” Darren added helpfully. “New Potions Master.”

“Oh! Oh, Darren, you have a professor now?”

“Darren does, him does, Mistress Granger!” Darren was all but dancing beside him, and he had to chuckle at the House Elf’s glee and Hermione’s sweet delight.

“I’m so happy for you! Oh, Master Etranger, you’ll be very well taken care of, then, Darren is my Fredie’s cousin, and he’s been wanting someone of his own to serve for a very long time,” Hermione laughed. 

“And the far-aways are coming soon, and Gildy heard Tisha tell Olive that there’s kiddies!” Darren added. “Little kiddies!”

“Oh, that will be wonderful for all of you,” Hermione said to the House Elf. “Well. I won’t keep you. But welcome to Hogwarts, Master Etranger.” She shook hands with him. “Welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Thank you, Mistress Granger. Do you live here?”

“Only on hols. I’m leaving next week-end to go back to Cambridge to get ready for the next semester.”

“Oh? What are you studying?”

“I’m pre-med right now. Muggle side.”

“Really?” That came as a surprise, that the Brain of the Golden Trio would go back to Muggle ways.

“Yes. There’s…I’ll go into it some other time,” she said, looking ahead to where a figure stood before the doors of Hogwarts, tall and taciturn. “Excuse me, won’t you? We were to have our ramble.” And then the dog reappeared, barking as it ran to the man in black.

“Smoke. Sit. Quiet, now.” The low, sonorous voice echoed in the evening, and the dog obeyed instantly. “Good girl. Wait; we’ll go on our walk in a moment.” The man stayed where he was as Jacques and Darren came up the steps. “Master Etranger, I presume?”

“I am.” Jacques extended his hand.

“Headmaster Snape.” The Headmaster shook hands with a strong grip, Jacques noted, though not too strong. Jacques could feel the worn calluses that meant long hours with a stirring rod, long, strong fingers. “Welcome to Hogwarts, Master Etranger. Darren will show you to your chambers, please refresh yourself and rest after your journey. If you don’t mind meeting me in the morning…”

“Not at all.”

“Then I will let the Castle and the House Elves see to your comfort; it is their pleasure.” He nodded, perhaps a bit stiffly. “Good evening. Come, Smoke.” He strode down the stone steps, the dog trotting obediently at his side.

“Now Master can get a good night’s sleeps before he meets with Headmaster,” Darren chattered as he led him inside. “And that will be good, it is always good to be well rested.”

“Darren. Is…is Miss Granger the Headmaster’s dog?” He asked, confused as Darren led him to a staircase.

“Yes. It is…odd. But Mistress Granger and Granger-Puppy aren’t the same, no. Mistress Granger can explain it to you. Darren can’t. Just. Different.” 

**  
  
**

His quarters were next to the Potions classroom, and he had to admit, they were very nice. Light and airy, with the scent of jasmine winging through the air, he had Darren put his bag in the bedroom. An en suite bath, good. The chifforobe seemed void of moths and bugs. The color scheme, a neutral white and brown, suited him very well indeed.

“Does Master wish anything to change?” Darren asked as he looked around. “Darren has car blank to change anything in Master’s room he wishes.”

“Carte blanche,” Jacques murmured quietly. 

“Yes! That!”

“No,” Jacques said, looking around. “Not tonight, anyway. Perhaps later.”

“Master likes it?”

“I’m very well pleased. They’re grand rooms.”

“Good!” Darren declared. “Master is hungry?”

“Yes, very much so.”

“Then Darren will go to kitchens and bring back Master’s supper.” The House Elf popped out of sight, and Jacques took advantage of the moment to look over the Potions lab. It seemed fine; he preferred to lecture in a classroom rather than a lab, but he could make do. And then the storeroom; it seemed to be in a state of flux, really. He could see that someone had once had everything stored neatly, but then someone else had come in and just…mucked it all up. He would have to straighten that up straightaway.

He left the storeroom, returned to his sitting room to find a plate of broiled chicken and rosemary roasted potatoes, roasted Brussels sprouts, a very nice small loaf of bread and a small flagon of white wine waiting for him. He ate, and just as he pushed the plate away, Darren reappeared.

“And strawberry tart for dessert?” He laid the dessert plate in front of him, and well, Jacques couldn’t be rude. Besides, it was very nicely browned, and the cream was sweet. 

“I couldn’t eat another bite, Darren,” he said at last, laying a hand on his stomach. “Please tell the kitchen elves it was all very good.”

“Good. They will like hearing that.”

**  
  
  
**

The next morning, after breakfast, which he asked to take in his rooms again, please, he would rather wait to meet the rest of the staff until after he’d spoken with the Headmaster, he let Darren lead him to the Headmaster’s Office. The house elf stopped in front of a grand gargoyle and patted its foot. “Oss, Master Etranger would like to speak to Headmaster, please.” Immediately, the gargoyle’s pedestal slid out of the way to reveal a set of narrow stairs. “Go up,” Darren said. “Headmaster must be up there, he doesn’t lets nobodies in unless he is.”

And he was. Behind a serviceable office desk, with two fairly comfortable chairs before it. He rose as Jacques entered the room, extending his hand again. His smile looked…not forced, exactly, but he looked as someone not accustomed to smiling. But of course he would not be. Severus Snape was a name as well known in Europe, and even amongst the goblins, as the Golden Trio’s. As were his actions.

“Good morning. I was a bit surprised by your request this morning, but it was perfectly understandable. Please, sit down. Coffee?”

“No, sir, thank you, I’ve had two cups already and I will twitch if I have more,” Jacques said as he took his seat.

“I see. You won’t take it amiss if I have some?”

“Not at all.” 

“Good. Tisha.” A female house elf shimmered into view. “Please bring me my coffee. Thank you.” The Headmaster sat down again, picked up some papers. “Now. Master Etranger. You will want to look this over, I imagine.” He held out a sheaf. “And you will want to burn this, most likely.” The contract. The thrice damned, hated, cursed contract.

“I -- you are releasing me?” Jacques stuttered, and the Headmaster nodded, handing him the paper with all its codicils, addendums, and extra fine print that had made his life so hard the last six years.

“I have been…under a leash,” he said slowly. “And I know how bloody hard it is. Even the thinnest chain, even the softest collar, is a bond. And I would have you here as Potions Master of your own free will.”

“I…thank you, Master Snape! Thank you!” Jacques took the damnable thing, gilt and inken chains, and ripped it apart. The parchment tore easily, such a welcome sound, the crackle of tearing parchment, after all this time. Half, then quarters. He tucked the pieces away in a pocket; he would burn it later. He blinked rapidly, fighting back tears, overcome by emotion, as he sat back down. Thankfully, the Headmaster said nothing, only sipped his coffee, looking down at some other paper that Jacques could not see. When he thought he had mastered himself, he cleared his throat.

“Ah. Good.” Master Snape looked up again, and Jacques thought, just for a moment, that there was a flicker of sympathy in the man’s dark eyes. “So. I will give you today to look over the contract, come up with any questions you might have --“

“No, no. Where do I sign?” Jacques said eagerly. “I cannot, I would not repay you so cruelly as to walk away now --“

“Don’t be hasty, lad.” The Headmaster leaned forward. “You can make a great deal more money by going to work for --“

“I don’t care --“

“Let me finish,” the Headmaster hissed, and Jacques stopped stock still. “Good. As I was saying. You could make a great deal more money going to work for yourself, or under another Master for a time if you wanted. Hogwarts’ pay scale tips toward seniority, and you will only be beginning. Fifth through Seventh years, and you will have to deal with…well. Let’s just say the last Potions Master had…shortcomings.” He paused. “And then there are the extra duties of a Potions Master at Hogwarts.”

“Extra duties?” Jacques asked.

“You will be who…” a small, wistful smile escaped the Headmaster. “You will be who goes to the Forbidden Forest to collect ingredients from now on. And you will be who fills the needs of the medical staff. Skele-Gro, most of all, we seem to go through heaps of the stuff.”

“Who will teach the First through Fourth years?” He asked.

“Narcissa and Draco Malfoy. Narcissa is perfectly capable of teaching the theory, and Draco can do the practicals. Of course, if you would like to help him with those, that would likely be appreciated.” He paused again. “I know it is…unusual, but I have my reasons.”

“Of course.”

“There are, of course, certain materials that the school will provide from its own nurseries; Pomona deals with that. And others that the school purchases. And I, or Minerva, as deputy headmistress, take care of those. Lists. Paperwork and invoices and manifestos. Not to mention grading theory papers, and pray, lad, that you don’t have another Hermione Granger among your students; she was incapable of writing the bare minimums required.” He sighed, heavily. “All of these things take time. Grading essays, gathering ingredients, preparing them, all of that must be done in one’s personal time. Creating the potions for the infirmary, again, personal time. It isn’t just standing in front of the blackboard and spouting things from a book and then going off to your own devices once classes are over. And then there are patrols. And Hogsmeade weekends.”

“I understand,” Jacques said quietly. “I do. I taught the Meltentongue children for the last five years, sir. Not just Potions, but the very basics as well, reading, writing, in both English and French. Their fathers taught them sums and…I suppose goblin magics. The beginning of botany. I have been teaching. I know it is not easy. But I am good at it, and more, I enjoy it.”

“You enjoy teaching.” The Headmaster repeated. “Well. You should still look over the contract. It’s fairly standard, but you should read it before you make any decisions.”

“I shall.”

“Good. Your quarters were satisfactory?”

“Very much so.”

“Excellent.” The Headmaster stood, and Jacques belatedly joined him. “Tell Darren when you wish to speak to me again; I can give you a day, perhaps two, but no more than that.”

“Yes, sir.” Jacques nodded, turned to leave, remembered something and turned again. “Headmaster Snape.”

“Yes?”

“How did you come up with substituting comfrey for antelope hair in your allergy potion? It’s genius. Sheer genius, and with antelope becoming harder to come across…“ He trailed off as the Headmaster blinked, as if surprised by the question.

“It…as you say. Antelope hair is becoming more and more costly, harder to come by. Really, it was a combination of experimentation and,” he chuckled, “exhaustion. But it needed to be done. Necessity is, after all, the mother of invention.”

“Yes, sir. Will I be free to experiment, if --“

“On your own time. What little there is of it. And while I turn a blind eye to the bulk ingredients, flobberworms, knotgrass and the like, you are responsible for your own more costly materials. It’s in the paperwork, I’m sure.”

“Yes, sir.” Jacques left then, going down the stairs and out the door to find Darren waiting patiently in the hall, darning a sock. Jacques’ sock, he noted. “Darren? I need to get back to the quarters assigned to me.”

“Of course, Master. This way.” 

**  
  
**

Severus waited until the downstairs door closed before speaking. “Beccos.”

“Yes, Headmaster?”

“What does Castle think of our latest refugee?” Beccos hummed to himself for a few seconds before speaking.

“Castle is glad that he is free now. And Castle thinks he would make a grand addition to the staff. He seems to have a good heart, from what little Castle has seen so far. But Castle would caution you, Headmaster. Should he choose to remain, he must be introduced to Castle properly, by you or the Deputy Headmistress. It is imperative that he understand that Castle is Castle.”

“Of course.” Severus had just picked up his quill when Beccos spoke again.

“Castle knows prisoners, Headmaster. And he was one. Perhaps not in chains of steel, but a prisoner, nonetheless.”

“He was,” Severus agreed quietly. “A prisoner of debt and honor. And that is why he must have a choice now.”

“Indeed.”

**  
  
  
  
  
**

The pay was abysmal. The headmaster had not lied. Twelve thousand Galleons a year, with a ten percent raise his third year, the last year of the contract. And that was with the Master’s addendum; apparently Journeymen in their fields received eight. Disappointing, yes, and especially so since he had not had paying work since attaining his Mastery. All of what little money he had made in his years in service had been from selling his sketches to goblins. However, it was actual pay. And too, he would be free. Yes, under contract. Yes, required to return to the school four weeks before any other professor at summer holidays in order to restock the infirmary’s potion supplies and the class needs. And yes, he would be very, very busy. 

But it would be a task he chose to take on. He would be out in the sun and rain and moon every day, most likely, especially this first year, as if he were correct, the storeroom of potions materials was woefully understocked, especially for beginning potions. His rooms, his food, would be paid for. And so his only expenditures, then, would be for clothing, books, art supplies, and personal potion making materiel. He would have three years in which to make an actual plan. If he left Hogwarts without the job, he would have nothing. No job, no fallback plan, his father was a wastrel and his mother had died when he was still a schoolboy himself. No. Working and living here was the best option, the only option that made sense. He appreciated the Headmaster’s warning, he appreciated the man’s thoughtfulness in pointing out that it was not an easy job, but this really was his only choice.

It was late afternoon, almost five o’clock, when he climbed the stairs to the Headmaster’s Tower again. “I have come to a decision, an informed one,” he told the taciturn man behind the desk. “I would like to accept the position. I…I do…” Jacques could feel his cheeks burning, knew he was coloring.

“Go on,” the Headmaster said briskly, not unkindly, but briskly.

“I do need to ask if I could possibly have half of my first month’s salary in advance. I…I will need teaching robes.”

“Ah. I’m sorry to tell you that I cannot advance you any salary. It’s against school policy.” The Headmaster stacked some parchments, squared them. “Tisha.” The house elf appeared. “Bring me my purse, Tisha.” He looked up at Jacques and smiled now. “However, I can make you a personal loan, if you like. You may repay me out of your first month’s salary.”

“That…that would be very kind of you, Headmaster.” Jacques’ face still burned. “I am very sorry to have to ask, but I made no money of any consequence --“

“I am well aware of the terms of your former contract, lad.” The house elf appeared, a velvet and leather pouch in her hand. “Half of your first month’s salary, I believe you said.”

“Yes, sir. Teaching robes and…and personal…items. Shaving materials and so on.”

“Of course.” The Headmaster began to count out Galleons. “You must always appear…” he smirked a bit. “As clean and fresh as you can. Now, you know, and I know, how impossible that can seem after eight hours over a cauldron, hmmm?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But one must do one’s best. You now represent Hogwarts, in all Her grandeur and dignity, whenever you are in public.” He stacked the money, looked about, transfigured a fresh sheet of parchment into a smaller leather pouch and swept it inside before handing it to Jacques. “I expect it back out of your first month’s salary. No interest.”

“Yes, sir, you have my word, sir, I promise you,” Jacques said quickly, putting the bag away in his current robes.

“Very well.” The Headmaster looked over the contract to ensure he had signed it in all the proper places, initialed every page, stacked the paper and tapped it with his wand; the Hogwarts Seal appeared, golden and glimmering, on the last page along with his signature. He tapped it again, and it disappeared. Then he stood, placing both hands to the small of his back and stretching. “I really must get a better chair, that one was Albus’, and he was a smaller man. Beccos, please make note.”

“Yes, Headmaster,” a voice came from Jacques’ left, and he turned, but saw no one.

“And since you’re now under geas not to speak of it, I would like to introduce you to the Castle,” the Headmaster said, coming around his desk. “This way, lad.” Gently, he turned Jacques to face the fireplace. “Beccos?” A small marble figurine of a gargoyle came to its feet on the mantelpiece. “Jacques Michel Etranger, Potions Master, Botany Journeyman, meet Hogwarts.”

The gargoyle, a copy, Jacques thought, of the one that guarded the door, extended its wings and front legs, inclining until its head was between its legs in the manner of a bow. “Welcome to Hogwarts, Master Etranger. Hogwarts charges you: teach the children as best you can. Guard them with your life, if necessary. Show them how to grow into responsible men and women who make honorable choices. And in exchange, Hogwarts will grant you much, much more than just a roof over the head and food in the belly and gold in your pouch.” The gargoyle flew forward, until it was just hovering before Jacques’ face. It reached out with one clawed paw, gently caressing Jacques’ cheek as he looked on in stunned silence. “Hogwarts,” it said softly, “will give you a home.”

**  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**

Oh, Castle and Sev had had words, and right smart ones, to be honest, over sliding the geas not to speak of Her sentience into the new contracts. Castle had been of the mind not to do so. She still did not like it, not at all. However…She sighed to herself, the breath raising the dust in every room. It was expedient. And necessary. Headmaster was, after all, a Slytherin. And Headmaster was Headmaster, and She would not change him, not a jot, not a tittle. He had given too much of himself, his soul, his blood, his body, for Her in his own way. And he had broken her chains. And it would keep her safe.

And, after all, he had argued. It is only until we know they will not act against you, Castle. And it isn’t anything that would hurt them. It only keeps them from speaking of it, as the Unmentionable Geas works. And once we know, once we are sure, that they love you, as I love you, I will free them, and lift the geas. You have my word, Castle, you have my word.

And he was an honorable man. And She loved him so. Ask a snake to dull its fangs, ask a spy to change his sly ways? Might as well ask the badger not to dig, ask the griffin not to roar, or the raven not to fly. Headmaster had been tasked with finding a way to keep her safe; he had done so. And so long as he kept his word, all would be well. And everything she had seen of Severus Tobias Snape told her that he would.

But what to do, what to do, when the time came, as She knew it would, that someone would NOT love Her? When someone’s fear overcame everything She did to prove Her Own good will?

“They will forget.” Headmaster’s voice had gone cold. “They will serve their contract, and they will choose not to renew it, and they will forget, before they leave my office during their outgoing interview. They will think instead that Hogwarts is a marvelous place, with many enchanted objects. They will forget You were sentient. They will forget You were odd, to them.” His face was stony in its implacability. “I will do nothing more. But I will not allow You to become compromised. I promised you that. I promised that I would protect You, Castle. And I shall.”

O stalwart son. O, that She had arms, O that she could embrace him, motherless child, of all the orphaned children that had passed through Her walls, very few had she ever wished to take on some humanoid form to comfort and love properly; and of that handful, he needed it most, and She felt it most deeply that She could not give him that last comfort.

But….the thought came to her.

She did now have a Daughter…and Her laughter, Her joy, caused the House Elves to dance in the kitchens, though they did not know why, caused Beccos to giggle on his perch, Ostiarus to smile to himself, Bellerophon to stamp his marble feet, prancing as he returned to his station after practice.

Oh, yes. She had a Daughter.


End file.
